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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301714">The Imposter</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida'>Zaniida</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Many Kidnappings of Harold P. Finch (AU Variants) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Person of Interest (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Creepyfest, Extreme Weather (Prompt #27), Gen, Kidnapped (Prompt #2), Other Whump Prompts in Author's Note, Possession (Prompt #15)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:21:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,147</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27301714</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember that guy in the episode <em>Proteus</em>, the one who was going around replacing people?</p><p>He kidnaps Harold.  Harold does not have a good time of it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Many Kidnappings of Harold P. Finch (AU Variants) [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1098819</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Whumptober 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Imposter</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/IMelopsittacus/gifts">IMelopsittacus</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've had this piece in the works for a <em>long</em> time.  Two to three years, even since I started putting together ideas for the <em>Finchnappings</em> series.  I'm tickled to finally be able to put it together, and meet a bunch of Whumptober prompts at the same time.  This year's Creepyfest has been an awesome ride! even if my brain persists in trying to avoid the two main fics I meant to be working on (I still have... 21 hours to post updates for those; no problem, right?).</p><p>One of the details that prompted this fic is Carter's unsafe gun use to "dramatically end" the standoff.  She comes up behind a guy who's holding Harold at gunpoint.  From what I can tell, she cannot actually clearly see the situation; she almost certainly can't tell whether he's imminently about to shoot Finch or not.  She does not announce herself, which likely would've ended the standoff without anyone firing a weapon.  She shoots him from behind, with Harold in front of him, which means there's a likelihood that the bullet could've gone <em>through</em> him and hit Harold as well.</p><p>And once I started considering what Carter should've done differently, everything from "NYPD! Drop your weapon!" onward, well, it became clear that in some ways, Finch might've been screwed.  Not as screwed as in the way I play it here, but still not great.  And I'm not great at police procedure, but I think this turned out pretty well.</p><p><strong>IMelopsittacus</strong>, you get this one on account of your reaction to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/12234504">Bespoke</a>.  This one is, of course, quite different, but I still hope you'll find it suitably horrible ^_^</p><p>Also, <strong>Stingalingaling</strong>, thanks for punching up the encounter with Carter.  If I had missed those steps, I think I would've regretted it later.</p><p>Anyway, sensitive readers should see the End Note for additional Whump Prompts and other warnings.  For the rest of you, a little suspense is a good thing, yeah?  Let's see how this plays out:</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I can always spot an imposter,” the mimic says, his tone curled with appreciation, with <em>wonder</em>.  “I spotted <em>you</em>.”  He steps closer, as if drawn to Harold’s mere existence.  “Are you… like <em>me</em>?”</p><p>When he reaches for Harold’s face, Harold flinches, but the man merely takes his glasses, slowly, and puts them on his own face.</p><p>“You have no idea,” Harold returns.  “You’re an <em>amateur</em> at this,” he adds, slowly, knowing that the observation isn’t going to save him and might, in fact, upset the man enough to kill him sooner.  But he can’t help it.  He’s spent a lifetime inhabiting the identities of anyone <em>but</em> himself, burying his original self so thoroughly that no one could ever dig it up, but each new skin has always been his own creation; this man leaves a trail of lost people, of missing bodies, and sooner or later that was always going to bring him down.</p><p>“You could never be me,” Harold says, “because I save lives.  You <em>take</em> them.”</p><p>“No!” the man protests, almost distressed.  “I live those lives better than the real people ever did.  I follow them and watch them waste what they have.  I do those identities justice!”</p><p>The assertion strikes Harold right in the center of his capacity for wrath.  Escape, survival, a fresh start, these things he could understand, but to destroy lives and then claim some kind of virtue for doing so?</p><p><em>Real people aren’t pieces, and you can’t assign more value to some of them than to others</em>.</p><p>His <em>creation</em> knows better than that.</p><p>The imposter seems shocked by his outrage, but it doesn’t seem to sway the man.  Instead, he smiles a little, returns Harold’s glasses, and motions them toward the door, keeping his distance—as if Harold posed any threat—and reiterating his promise to hurt others if Harold resists.</p><p>So much for his protest about not taking lives.</p><p>As Harold hobbles toward the door, toward the rain, he’s comforted by the knowledge that the man could never fool his team, or hack past his security measures.  The Machine might be too compromised to track him, but at least the imposter will not be able to use his identity for long.</p><p>“<em>NYPD!  Drop your weapon!</em> ”</p><p>It’s Carter, out in the rain, pointing a gun, and Harold has a moment of desperate relief.</p><p>Then the imposter announces, very clearly, “Special Agent Alan Fahey.  I am apprehending a dangerous criminal.  This man is suspected of the murder of eight people, three on this island within the past twenty-four hours.”</p><p>“He’s an imposter, detective,” Harold counters instantly.  “He’s killed the <em>real</em> Alan Fahey, along with all the rest.”</p><p>“You got some ID?” Carter demands skeptically, gun still pointed at the imposter.</p><p>“Of course,” the man says.  “Detective.  Detec<em>tives</em>,” he corrects himself, glancing toward Detective Beecher, just entering from the other side.  “I am going to put my gun down on the floor.”</p><p>“Go on,” Carter allows, and he does, slowly and carefully, then stands back up.  “Kick it to the side,” she adds, and he does that too.</p><p>“Now I am going to reach into my back pocket to get my wallet.”  At her approval, he does, telegraphing every move, and pulls out a photo ID.  He stands perfectly still as Carter comes up behind him, takes the ID, and backs away.</p><p>“Special Agent Alan Fahey?”</p><p>“That’s me,” the man says with unwavering confidence.</p><p>Getting in front of him, Carter shines her flashlight in his face, and compares it to the photo.  She even double-checks the ID itself to see if it’s been altered in any noticeable way.</p><p>“Got any explanation for an up-to-date photo ID?” she asks, shooting a glance at Harold.</p><p>When he doesn’t respond, she holsters her gun.  Beecher keeps his at the ready, but no longer pointed in anyone’s direction.</p><p>Racking his brain, Harold simply can’t put the details together.  If the imposter happened upon his victim without meaning to, if he had to switch roles in a hurry and John surprised him soon after, how could he possibly have created an ID on the fly?  Even Harold, at the height of his skill, needed the kind of machinery you don’t want to get caught with, and security features have only improved.</p><p>“Ask Marshal Jennings,” he blurts, the only thing he can think of.  “He can vouch for me.”  With John around, the rest will sort itself out, one way or the other.</p><p>“That can all get cleared up at the initial hearing,” the imposter counters.  “This man is a wanted fugitive, suspected of dozens of crimes against persons and two crimes against the State.  Marshal Jennings already took him into custody once, and he managed to talk his way free.  So I <em>am</em> taking him into custody… if you’re quite assured of my credentials?”</p><p>It’s a bluff—surely no more than a bluff—but Harold feels the blood leave his face, and the expressions on Carter and Beecher make it clear that he’s given himself away.  Because in his case, a bluff is as good as the truth: He’s been on the run from a charge of treason since he was seventeen.  If they dig into it, if the FBI gets on his trail, they’re going to uncover it <em>all</em>.</p><p>Carter cannot admit to knowing him, not in front of Beecher, not when she doesn't even know the name he’s currently using.  She cannot turn on a Federal Agent without evidence, certainly not after confirming his identity (however he managed <em>that</em> magic trick).  NYPD jurisdiction doesn’t trump the FBI; the badge is real enough, the ID convincing enough, and the imposter seems to know enough code phrases to bypass at least some of the objections Carter might have raised.  And Beecher’s here as a witness to protocol.</p><p>Any move other than compliance would lead to a different kind of investigation, one that might cost Carter her career—and all because she happens to consider Harold something like a friend.  If that.</p><p>But she already knows he’s a criminal with a shady past, one who’s lied to her face.  For good reason, of course, but it does call his veracity into question; however much Carter might trust Harold by this point, or <em>want</em> to trust him, she cannot simply take him at his word.</p><p>Which leaves him with just one hope: to stall until John catches up to them.</p><p>But as the wind picks up outside, blasting the rain in through the open door, the imposter huffs.  “We don’t have much time,” he presses, shouting over the noise.  “At the rate that storm is building, we’re all going to be stuck here.  I would just as soon ensure that the suspect is behind bars so we can sort this all out.  If I’ve got the wrong guy, well… at least he’ll be safe from the storm.  Safer than out here.”</p><p>He digs his handcuffs out, displays them to the detectives, and pulls Harold’s hands behind his back.  Neither of the detectives move to stop him.  Harold’s run out of words.</p><p>“I’ll accompany you to your car,” Carter says as the imposter retrieves his gun and checks it over, apparently in a convincing way, before holstering it.</p><p>“There are three dead bodies on this island,” he counters.  “And a dozen anxious people in there.  I’ve got my duties; you’ve got an investigation or a rescue operation or both.”</p><p>Carter sighs, casts one last look at Harold, turns on her heel, and heads into the building as Harold’s stomach drops.</p><p> </p><p>The imposter marches him over to the plane.</p><p>Briefly, Harold considers whether to outright refuse, or to stall, but the imposter has already killed twice out of self-preservation, and if he sees John running their way then he’ll most likely shoot him before John could even get near enough to get a clean shot.</p><p>Harold would much rather risk his own life than to put John in that much danger.  So he starts up the plane and flies into the storm.</p><p>Perhaps in better circumstances, Harold could have flown them somewhere useful, derailed his captor’s plans—or dashed them both into the sea, ending the imposter’s lies for good.  But with the Machine at such great risk, it seems unconscionable to deliberately end his life while there’s still hope of escape; he’s the only one capable of doing anything to avert the oncoming disaster.  And the storm buffets them until Harold has no choice but to land as quickly and safely as possible.</p><p>They’re at the end of Long Island, and the imposter stops to put the handcuffs back on Harold before marching him down the street, in rain so heavy they can barely make out a block ahead.  The storm has driven the city to a standstill; not a soul challenges them, even when the imposter stops to steal a truck.</p><p>Given the flooded streets, driving is a bit dicey, and the imposter has to backtrack and choose other routes on more than a couple occasions; some of the bridges seem a hair’s breadth from being washed away.  Two hours later, though, they’ve made it to the mainland.</p><p>Harold asks his real name, once, but the man simply grins at him in the mirror and says “Weren’t you paying attention?  I’m Alan Fahey.”</p><p>After that, Harold doesn’t find anything worth talking about.  The cold and wet have left him with a sore throat, a drippy nose, and a splitting headache, and none of that matters as much as the fact that he’s in the hands of a serial killer who steals identities and is probably about to attempt to steal <em>his</em>.</p><p>And then… what?  They hadn’t been able to find any evidence of what had become of the missing people.  Not bodies or body parts or notable purchases of the sort of things you need to dispose of a body <em>(John had been looking for those; Harold hadn’t asked for the details)</em>.  Just their absence, like negative space: a life that had been there and had suddenly taken a turn for the better for a few months or years and then was just as suddenly gone.</p><p>It all seems so dreamlike, except for the numbness of his arms and the shivers running through his body, the water dripping down from his hair.</p><p>Just like with Root, there is nothing he can do about it but hope to last.  Until John catches up to him.  Because John will never stop looking; he knows that, now.</p><p>
  <em>(If John is even still alive, a tiny part of his heart whispers through the rain.)</em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Soon after entering Queens, the imposter parks in a back alley and escorts Harold out of the truck and through the back entrance of some dilapidated apartment building.  The room he brings them to is dusty, the door covered in disintegrating yellow tape, as though a crime had happened there months or years ago and nobody has bothered to reclaim the area.</p><p>And then they’re alone together, and the imposter is putting the chain on the door, and taking off Harold’s handcuffs.</p><p>“I won’t tell you anything,” Harold says quietly, firmly.</p><p>The imposter breaks into a grin.  “So we’re going with the classics, are we?  You do seem like a man of learning.  But you see,” he says, dipping into the bathroom long enough to retrieve a surprisingly clean towel, “you’ve already told me more than you ever intended.”</p><p>He pauses, for a moment, to empty his pockets onto the nightstand, consider the contents, then stuff most of it back where it came from.  Then he turns back to Harold.</p><p>“And now,” he adds, stalking closer, “it’s time to delve a little deeper.”</p><p>Harold flinches when the man reaches for him, towel in hand—but instead of blindfolding him or strangling him, the man simply runs the towel over his face and hair, drying him off, briefly pulling up his glasses to pat at his eyes.  He smiles almost sympathetically, then turns away.</p><p>Near the sliding-glass door, caked with grime, there’s a pair of green plastic deck chairs, slightly cracked.  The imposter uses the wet towel to studiously wipe down one of the chairs, then flips the folded towel over to dry it off, though he does not bother with the other.  Once content with his efforts, he tosses the towel on the floor and steers Harold over to the clean chair, pushing gently on both shoulders until Harold takes a seat.</p><p>Then the man takes his own seat, scooting closer, knees interwoven.</p><p>And takes Harold’s head in his hands.</p><p>“I had wondered,” he adds, taking Harold’s chin and turning his head just a little, side to side, “if you weren’t another like me, another… I’ve never met one, you know.  For all I know, I could be the only one in existence.  It’s a bit of a lonely thought.  But the things I’ve seen… the things I’ve done… I wouldn’t trade a second of it.”</p><p>“You’ve a very sick man,” Harold says.</p><p>“I never take the innocent,” the man counters.  “Never the worthy.  I look for the kind of people who’ve squandered their lives, who had all the potential and never did anything useful with it.  The people no one would miss.  I clean up their lives and bring value to the world before I move on.  And from each of them… I learn a little more.”</p><p>“Agent Fahey was innocent,” Harold says.</p><p>“A hard decision,” the man murmurs, looking down as if a little ashamed.  “But I could see no way around it.  It was… self-defense.”</p><p>“You don’t get to kill an innocent person to save your own life,” Harold protests.  “Let alone merely to avoid prison.  Certainly not when it’s your own actions, your own <em>choices</em> that have put you in danger in the first place.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t have,” the man contends.  “But I can’t let them take me.  I’m unique, don’t you see?  If they found out… if they discovered my true nature… either they’d destroy me, or they’d… do worse.  I <em>had</em> to get away.  I had no <em>choice</em>.”</p><p>“So you kill Agent Fahey, and then the deputy, and me—how many more innocent lives will you take to preserve your one?”</p><p>Suddenly, the man looks stricken, his face scrunched up as if Harold has struck some deep wound inside him.</p><p>“I didn’t—” he protests, his voice suddenly pitched high, a whine, like a child’s protest, and he clutches at his temples with the heels of both hands, hunching over, eyes squeezed shut.  “I—I—she shouldn’t have gotten in the way, she—I would have, but there wasn’t <em>time</em>—I <em>know</em> she’s lost, all that uniqueness lost, and I didn’t want to <em>do it</em>, but—what else could I have <em>done?</em>  What would <em>you</em> have done?” he adds, desperately, panting.</p><p>Harold stares at the man, at a loss for words, floored by both the question and the total change in tone.  This whole time, with few exceptions, the imposter has acted with unassailable self-assurance, barely swayed by Harold’s best arguments; what about this last statement has gotten to him so?</p><p>But while Harold sits there, speechless, the man sits up straighter, and takes in a deep breath, and bows his head, eyebrows deeply furrowed.  “I’m sorry.  I won’t forget,” he says, and Harold has the strangest feeling that he’s somehow not addressing those words to Harold.  “But this is what I have to do now.  I truly don’t have a choice.</p><p>“You know far too much about me,” he adds, looking back at Harold.  “And I doubt I’d be able to keep you prisoner for long, not with that detective snooping around.  So this, too, is self-defense.  I promise you, I won’t waste it.”</p><p>He places both hands on Harold’s temples, and closes his eyes.</p><p>There’s a sudden unbearable pressure, a <em>popping</em> that bubbles up within Harold, and he tries to pull back but finds that he cannot move, cannot even so much as blink his eyes.</p><p>Cannot miss the fact that one second he was staring at the imposter</p><p>and the next second the imposter is gone.</p><p>He wants to turn, frantically, to look for the man, figure out where he went, but his body does not respond.</p><p>Except… he rises to his feet, walks calmly over to the nightstand, and retrieves the contents: money, a keyring, a small notepad with a pen.  Pulls out his wallet, briefly examines the contents, adds the money, puts it all in his pocket, and turns toward the bathroom.</p><p>In the mirror, he studies himself, as if looking himself over for the first time.  Gingerly runs his fingers over the back of his neck, where the scar tissue is.  Turns his head one way and then the other, cautiously feeling out the limitations.</p><p>Then he walks over to the toilet and dusts off the top of the tank.  Slowly, he takes off his suit, as if discovering each new piece as the layers get peeled off.  Each piece gets folded and laid across the back of the toilet, until he’s naked from the waist up, examining his scarred body in the mirror, his fingers exploring the scars.</p><p>He never touches his own scars.</p><p>He’s always done his best to pretend that his scars <em>don’t exist</em>.</p><p>“All right,” he says to himself in the mirror.  “I suppose that explains the suit.  Cover every inch of skin so you don’t have to think about the injuries.  Do you know, this is my first time with a major disability?  It’s going to be quite the experience.”</p><p>And then, as if ice were running through his veins, Harold <em>understands</em>.</p><p>In the mirror, he smiles.  “Oh, yes.  You were never <em>anything</em> like me.”</p><p>As Harold struggles inside himself, trying to do something, to <em>say</em> something, to wrest command of his own body back from the one who has taken it over… he calmly puts his suit back on, each piece perfectly in place, the armor he’s lived his life in for the past few years.</p><p>“That little?” he muses.  “I would have thought longer.  How <em>did</em> I get so damaged?”</p><p>Harold’s mind flies to Nathan, to his regrets, to the bombing, the agents—</p><p>“I have made some enemies, then,” he murmurs.  “I thought you weren’t as innocent as you seemed.  Guess I’ll have to watch my step.  Any dangers I should be aware of right now?”</p><p>Decima, Root, HR, the attack on the Machine—</p><p>“Oh, dear,” he says.  “Well.  Suppose I better lay low for a while, then, until I get a better idea of what I’m up against.  Shall we start with this ‘Machine’?”</p><p>As he heads for the door, he leaves behind nothing in the room but footprints, a wet towel, and a patch of soft ashes on the chair and carpet that used to be Alan Fahey.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So besides the main three (Kidnapping (#2), Possession (#15), Extreme Weather (#27), this fill should also count for these:</p><p>Held at Gunpoint (#3), Wrongfully Accused (#17)</p><p>"Get It Out" (#6), Forced Mutism (#24), and an odd version of both Enemy to Caretaker (#7) and Isolation (#8).</p><p>Also, if you take "Let's Hang Out Sometime" (#1) more idiomatically, this is a somewhat extreme example, but it counts.</p><p>I'm not sure what else to tag, at this point; I've been running through it so many times that my eyes are starting to cross.  If you spot any major aspects that I ought to tag, please let me know in the comments!</p><p>P.S. I used to watch <em>Stargate SG-1</em> all the time.  Can you tell which aspect I found the most compelling?</p><p>P.P.S. I do want to do more with this idea, but for now we'll leave it on the edge of creepy implications.  I have some big *possible* plans, but so much else on my plate right now.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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